


The Perfect Lazy Sunday

by Wolfscub



Category: British Actor RPF, Tom Hiddleston Fandom
Genre: Erotica, F/M, Fluff, PWP, Smutty Smut Smutt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-02
Updated: 2015-04-02
Packaged: 2018-03-20 22:01:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3666825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wolfscub/pseuds/Wolfscub
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Short about what might happen while spending a lazy Sunday in bed with Tom.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Perfect Lazy Sunday

**Author's Note:**

> Haven't been writing much lately.
> 
> Life - that bitch - interferes.
> 
> The title kinda says it all. Just a short one shot.
> 
> Inspired by real events . . . ;)

[ ](http://s1008.photobucket.com/user/phillyloo/media/DBS_zpstkdlexx3.gif.html)

[source](http://tomhiddleston-gifs.tumblr.com/post/74825609790/bonus-you-bet-she-does-i-just-love-in-the)

Awaken, nude, surrounded by every taut, tight bit of him, that hot, wet mouth avidly at your nipples, while you try to push him away to catch another twenty - or forty - badly needed winks after he was at you relentlessly all night but now - like then - he will not be dissuaded.

Snuggle, still barely awake, constantly petted and caressed - lovingly, lustily - as his hands possess and explore that which he considers to be his.

Fuck, brought to multiple, marvelous, mind-blowing orgasms when he will no longer be deterred by threats of morning breath and your need for a shower, eagerly putting his mouth and fingers to work, groaning _with_ you - as if it was his greatest bliss, too - when he knows you can do nothing more than climax helplessly in his arms.

Nap, clamped tight to his side, the fingers of your only free hand locked with his over his breast, cheek to chest, hearing the comforting - if still somewhat faster than usual - thumping of his heart beneath your ear, one big hand tracing lazy patterns on your lower back, sometimes venturing south to your bottom, fingers delicately tickling and aggressively gripping the ample flesh they find there.

Awaken, to him nibbling on you hungrily again - still - the edges of his teeth at the pulse of your neck . . . the inside of your elbow . . . the back of your thigh . . .

Eat, but only that which is delivered to your lips by long fingers, a veritable feast of leftovers from the excesses of last night - a hair of Jameson's over ice, Chinese food, chips and dip - and ice cream that he takes a mouthful of, deliberately leaning over to envelop your nipple in that frozen, sweet heat, effortlessly holding you down as you frantically try to dislodge him, keeping you fast beneath him while you beat futilely at broad shoulders until, the urgency he created passed, he gives an unrepentant chuckle and lets you up finally, warning/threatening that next time it might not just be your nipple, which prompts you to hurriedly, giggling, down the remains of the cookies and cream and cookie dough pints, claiming self-defense.

Make love, slowly, savoring every touch, every taste, eyes locked together as if looking away would somehow diminish the pleasure, fingers curled into and around places that elicit gasps from both of you, each hurtling towards an end that the other is in charge of.

Sleep, sated beyond all coherence, knowing bone deep that thinking is not necessary with him, held tight and safe, a long, thick thigh between your more delicate ones, pressing rhythmically against your lady parts as he holds you to him, feeling you still contracting in the aftermath and loving your sensitivity to him, low, rumbled nothings lulling you into slumber even as your exhausted body still responds to his sensual commands . . . 

Repeat, ad infinitum.


End file.
